Blood of the Red

Chapter 20 - Dain

Part 20 – Dain

Everyone likes him. He knows what to say, and they know he means it.

Dain watched Ingold at the bar. No-one knew him for a bard, just some wanderer off the Parsus Road, but already he was one of them. The pockmarked blacksmith, who had sneered at them as they entered the inn, now clapped a callused hand to Ingold's shoulder. "When you get that sword o' yours, you bring it to me. I'll put an edge on it that'd cut the wind."

The auras of every person in the place leaned towards Ingold's as a candle flame will lean toward the draw of the hearth.

The fat man in the butcher's apron had welcomed them with a sour look. "Don't want no beggar boys in here," he'd said. Now he followed Ingold, chuckling at some joke, carrying the plates of food whilst Ingold held the beers, to save him a second trip to the bar.

"There you go, lad." Ingold set down two foaming mugs of ale.

The butcher laid the plates down, beef and greens in gravy. "Enjoy it. Cut that beef from the bone myself I did. I give the Blue Boar my top cuts."

Dain watched the man waddle off, then bent to his food. The meat proved as good as promised. He ate it with dedication. Beef! Lords eat beef. If Tomny and Jaine could see me now! There's enough to share . . . But Tomny died, frozen in the gutter outside the Stallion in that ice-storm. And Jaine works for Madam Lorn now, like Ma used to, and that kind of work takes away your appetite, Ma said.

"Did that touch the sides?" Ingold asked, wiping the foam from his upper lip. "You must have hollow legs, boy. Never seen somebody so small put it away so quick! Don't forget your ale now."

The tankard felt heavy. Dain held it in two hands and raised it to his mouth. He'd never had ale before. The stuff tasted bitter. He swallowed and took another gulp. Ingold doesn't want a baby with him.

Dain finished the ale by the time Ingold was ready to leave. He felt as if he were back aboard Cap'n Elbard's Farland, the planks of the Blue Boar seemed to roll beneath his feet.

"We'll get you some clothes, lad. It's cold up in the mountains." Ingold pointed up at the white ridges rising behind the rooftops of Narvil. "I asked Maidel to get you kitted out. That jerkin's a mess! Mud, soot, blood and salt! You've got it all there. And it's all torn up, how'd that happen?"

"Argument with a fish," Dain chuckled, remembering the crates and the fishhead. He felt in a remarkably good mood.

Ingold had to duck to enter the tailor's shop. Dain stumbled down the steps behind him. The place was a single room, festooned with cloth of every kind. Against the back wall deep box-shelves held bolts of cloth, score upon score. Yards of black velvet vomited from the high shelves, cascading down beside a waterfall of sky-blue silk. Great veils of lace cobwebbed the corners, and to the left, half a dozen tailors' dummies, wallflowers in voluminous gowns, waiting to dance.

At the centre of it all a man sat sewing. A gnome of a man, small, thin, bald headed and big-nosed, surrounded by a rainbow of cotton reels. A bell had tinkled when they opened the door, but the tailor's eyes didn't so much as flicker from his work.

Ingold took up an end of brightly checked fabric where the box-shelves disgorged their contents and swiftly drew forth several yards. He held it across his chest, green and yellow against the dark grey of his cloak.

"Does it suit me, Dain? Does it say 'Bard' or 'Mountain-man' to you?"

"Still the joker, my Lord of Stannith?" The tailor looked up from his stitching. There were three pins in the corner of his mouth, held between yellowed teeth, but it was his eyes that drew Dain, great dark wells, hardly a hint of the whites.